The Rebound
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After Stacy leaves, House and Cuddy have rebound sex. House gets confused.


Cuddy caught up with House just as he was heading to the garage elevator.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked.

"Home," he said. "Contrary to popular opinion, I don't actually live here."

"An hour ago, you had a case. Has anything changed in the last hour?"

"Your nipples have gotten harder."

She ignored him.

"Is your case solved?"

"Define solved."

"Have you diagnosed him?"

"No."

"Are you any closer to a diagnosis?"

"No."

"Is your team running tests?"

"No."

"Then why are going home?"

"I guess I'm just not in a diagnosin' mood," he said.

"_House_. . ."

"Trust me, everything's under control. See ya!"

And he stepped into the elevator. Much to his annoyance, she followed him.

"House, what's going on with you?" Cuddy said.

He sighed

"Nothing. What's going on with _you_?"

"Nothing. But I haven't been moping around the hospital for the past two weeks doing virtually nothing."

"That _would_ be a weird coincidence if we both were doing that," House said.

"This is about Stacy, isn't it?"

The elevator had opened into the garage. They both stepped out.

"Who?" he said coyly.

"She told me something happened between you. And now she's gone. And I can only assume that you're the reason why."

"Right. Nothing to do with her life back in Short Hills. I'm also the reason Dr. Cho retired to Boca, by the way."

"House, you need to talk to someone."

"I have a therapist named Bambi coming over later tonight."

That was a lie, but he hoped it would deter her.

Instead, she grabbed his arm. (Most people didn't dare to touch House. But for some reason, Cuddy never hesitated to put a hand on his shoulder or lead him by the arm. He secretly liked this about her.)

"House, you have one of two options," she said. "You can go back upstairs and help your team solve the case or you can come with me to Sullivan's and tell me what the hell is going on with you."

"What's behind door number three?" he asked.

"Door number three is you're on probation."

He stared at her. She stared back at him, all business.

"I was planning on getting shitfaced tonight anyway," he said with a shrug. "If you want to be a witness to the inebriation, be my guest. I assume you're buying?"

"I'll expense it," she said. "Let me get my purse."

######

They sat at the bar at Sullivan's. House ordered a scotch.

Cuddy ordered a glass of white wine.

He frowned at her.

"That's not a drown your sorrows drink."

"I'm not drowning my sorrows—you are."

"Huh," he said, gulping down scotch with a flourish.

"Another one, barkeep," he said, triumphantly.

"Spill it, House."

"The drink? That would be a terrible waste."

"Tell me what happened between you and Stacy."

"I just don't feel comfortable opening up to you when I'm drinking and you're practically teetotaling."

Cuddy sighed. It was always a negotiation with him.

"I'll order a scotch if you agree to open up about Stacy."

He eyed her.

"Deal," he said. Then he turned to the bartender. "A double for the lady. She has some catching up to do."

The bartender gave Cuddy her drink.

She took a generous gulp.

"Happy now?"

"Very."

"So what happened?"

He looked down at the bar.

"We hooked up, as the kids say."

"Kind of gathered that."

"And then I told her she had to choose, between me and rollerboy."

"Of course, your complete lack of sensitivity to the disabled is to be expected, since you have no experience with that sort of thing yourself."

"He's going to get out that chair one day. I'm a gimp for life," House said. "Thanks for cheering me up, Cuddy! You're really good at this!"

"So then what? She chose Mark?"

"Oddly enough, she chose me."

Cuddy looked at him, surprised.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I told her to go back to her husband."

"But . . . why?"

"Because I'm no good for her. Mark is a decent, caring human being. I'm. . .not."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open a bit.

"House, you actually did something noble."

"That's not what Wilson thinks."

"What does he think?"

"Nice try, Cuddy. Finish that drink and maybe I'll tell you about Wilson's low opinion of me."

Cuddy looked at her drink, which was only a third empty.

She chugged it, emptying the glass. It stung the back of her throat.

House gave a half-smile, impressed.

"Two more!" he said, slamming his hand on the bar.

When the bartender handed them their drinks he said, "Wilson thinks I'm in love with my misery."

"That _does_ have the ring of truth," Cuddy said.

House took a swig; watched Cuddy out of the corner of his eye. She followed suit.

"I think the fact I love my misery is _why_ Stacy shouldn't be with me," he said. "Well, one of many reasons."

Cuddy looked at him reassuringly. Her hand on his shoulder—again.

"You're not that bad, House."

"I seem to recall you used to think I was more than just 'not that bad.'"

"You were okay," she teased.

"I was great."

"You were too young to be great," she said.

"I was a fast study," he said.

"You were …precocious," she admitted.

"And you were strictly head of the class."

"Thank you," she said, feeling her face get red.

His face was close to hers.

"I think of that night often," he said. "Mostly when I'm in the shower."

She took another swig.

"I'd be lying if I said it never crossed my mind."

Then he gave her a musing look: "Did you ever tell Stacy about our little . . .night of sin?"

"What?" Cuddy said, recoiling a bit. Her voice had gotten a little louder, as it tended to do when she drank too much. "Why on earth would I tell her that?"

"I don't know. Girl talk. Swapping stories. Bragging."

"I somehow managed to keep this joyous news to myself. Why? _You _didn't tell her, did you?"

"Hell no! She was jealous enough of you as it is."

Cuddy snorted a bit, but couldn't deny she was flattered.

"Why would Stacy be jealous of me?"

"She was convinced I had the hots for you."

Just at that moment, the bartender placed a glass of champagne in front of Cuddy.

"From the gentleman at the end of the bar," he said.

It was a middle aged guy—a salesman type, sitting by himself. The guy waved.

Cuddy pushed the glass back to the bartender.

"Tell him I'm not interested."

The bartender shrugged. He walked over to the guy, broke the news. The guy stood up, began walking toward them.

"Oh great," Cuddy grumbled.

"Don't worry. I'm very good at loudly yelling 'FIRE!' in moments like this."

"My hero."

The salesguy sidled up to them.

"I'm sorry," he said to Cuddy. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"No offense taken," Cuddy said. "I just don't want the drink."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not interested in the drink."

"Not interested in the drink, or not interested in the guy buying the drink?" he said, flirtatiously.

"Neither," Cuddy said.

"She's with me," House said, putting his arm around Cuddy.

"The bartender told me you were going on and on about some other woman," the guy said.

"Role playing," House said. "Tonight we're playing 'rebound sex.' But she's definitely with me."

And with that, he leaned down and planted a kiss on Cuddy's mouth.

It was meant to be a joke, in a way—a stolen kiss, at a time she couldn't defend herself—something he could give Cuddy grief about later.

But he forgot—in fact they both had forgotten—how well their mouths and tongues melded. The kiss almost instantly became hot and sensual and quite real.

"My bad," the salesguy said, noticing their undeniable chemistry. He backed off.

Meanwhile, House and Cuddy had stopped kissing and were now staring at each other, in a bit of shock. They both wanted to do that again. And again. And again.

"Check please," Cuddy said.

They barely made it to her car. House slammed Cuddy against a corridor wall on the way out and they kissed again. Then they kissed while leaning against the exterior of the bar. Then they made as far as his car, where they began making out, while wedged against the door. This time, House's hands began to make their way under her clothing. His fantasy of hiking up her skin-tight skirt and reaching for her ass was becoming a reality.

"My place?" Cuddy said, practically wrapping her leg around him and biting his lip.

My God, she was sexy.

"Mine's closer," he said.

She followed him back to his place. Again, they could barely get through the door without lunging for each other.

When they finally made it to the bedroom, there was something completely uninhibited and carnal about their sex. Cuddy was a biter, a scratcher, an acrobat, a screamer. House had never been so turned on in his life.

Afterward, both coated in sweat, they lay side by side on the bed, catching their breath.

"That was. . .unexpected," Cuddy said.

"Yeah," House said.

She got up, began searching for her clothes.

He watched her getting dressed. Seeing Cuddy put on the business suit he had just ripped off her was giving him a fresh boner.

"You don't have to. . ."

"I actually do," she said quickly. She seemed suddenly embarrassed, eager to leave.

"Okay," he said.

"See you tomorrow?" she said.

"You're the bestest boss ever," he said, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Thanks."

And she bolted for the door.

#######

The next day, Wilson found House, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, eating his lunch outside on the picnic table.

"What are you doing out here?" Wilson asked.

House peered nervously over Wilson's shoulder.

"Were you followed?"

"Followed?"

"By Cuddy."

"No, she usually only shadows me on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Good." House slunk further down on his bench, lowered the cap over his eyes.

"Why are you hiding from her?"

"You don't want to know."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Not sure yet."

Wilson folded his arms.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?" he said, annoyed.

"That's a loaded question."

"House, stop yanking my chain."

House looked up.

"Put it to you this way: Your chain's not the only thing that got yanked."

"_What_?"

House nodded.

"You and you Cuddy? _What?"_

"Yes, we what-ed."

"House you idiot! She's your boss!"

"Tell me about it."

"How did this happen?"

"Well, the man inserts the penis inside the woman's vagina. . ."

"House…"

House sighed.

"She was consoling me about Stacy. One thing led to another. . ."

"What does that even mean?"

"We were drinking, reminiscing, flirting, passionately making out against my car . . .that sort of thing."

Now Wilson slunk into his seat.

"So how. . .was it?" he said, softly.

House raised his eyebrows in a "wouldn't you like to know" sort of way.

Wilson squirmed a bit.

"So what are you going to do?" he said, finally.

"Fake amnesia?"

"Great plan."

"Obviously, I don't have a plan, Wilson. That's why I'm hiding—uh, _laying low_—out here. You're good at getting out of relationships. Any suggestions?"

Wilson laughed.

"Don't look at me, pal. You slept with your boss in your bed, now you have to lie in it."

"Very helpful, Wilson."

#####

He saw her approaching in the hall, ducked a bit, and turned the corner.

"House!" she barked.

He pretended not to hear her.

"House! My office. Now!"

_Shit._

He obediently followed her.

She sat behind the desk. He stood there sheepishly.

"I know what you're doing," she said.

"What?"

"You don't have to avoid me. And take off that ridiculous hat."

He took off his hat. Rubbed his head. His hair was matted and a bit cowlicky.

"Have a seat," Cuddy said.

House sat. He felt like he had been called the principal's office.

"So we drank a lot last night," Cuddy started.

"Indeed, we did."

"How's your head by the way?"

"Competing with my leg for bragging rights. Yours?"

"Nothing a few of your vicodin can't cure."

House reached into his pocket.

"I'm kidding," she said.

"Oh."

"Look House. I just want to say, you don't have to worry. I'm not upset about what happened. And I have no expectations."

His eyes widened.

"Every woman in the world knows the dangers of rebound sex. I went into it with my eyes open. Okay, partially open—those drinks were pretty strong."

House nodded.

"And I know it was a one-time thing."

"It doesn't necessarily have to be a—"

"Look, I had fun. I hope you had fun."

"_Tons_ of fun," House said.

"So let's just try to keep the horrific, mind-numbing awkwardness to a minimum and go back to being House and Cuddy, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Positive."

House sat there, not quite sure what to do.

"Don't you have a patient to diagnose?" she said.

"Oh right!" he said.

He popped up and left.

#####

Three days later, Wilson came into House's office at the end of the day. House was sitting in the dark, chewing on a pencil.

"Everything okay?" Wilson said, ironically.

House looked at him, still not completely focused.

"I can't stop thinking about her," he said.

Wilson sat down.

"I understand House. Look, she was your girlfriend for five years. You pined away for five more. You can't expect to get over her in just a few weeks. . ."

House shot him a look.

"Not Stacy," he said. "Cuddy."

Wilson was shocked.

"_Cuddy_? What, you"—he lowered his voice— "want to have sex with her again? You want a _relationship_ with her?"

"Definitely yes to the first one. I have no clue about the second one. That's why I'm obsessing."

"That's never good."

"Tell me about it."

"I can't even begin to tell you how hot she was, Wilson. Think of every horny fantasy you've ever had about her—"

"I never had any. . ." Wilson began to protest.

"Every straight guy in this hospital has had horny fantasies about her," House interrupted.

Wilson shrugged in a "good point" sort of way.

"Anyway, multiply that by a thousand—and that's how hot she was."

Wilson felt his own face grow hot.

"So what are you going to do?" he sputtered.

"Once again, no clue."

"Talk to her. Feel her out."

"Did that already."

"I said feel her _out_, House. Not feel her up."

"Oh."

"Just go to her office—I'm pretty sure she hasn't left yet—and see how she's feeling about you."

"She already told me it was a one-time deal."

"Maybe she said that because she thought that's what _you_ wanted to hear."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe she just sees it as a regrettable indiscretion and she wants to put it behind her as quickly as possible."

"Gee thanks pal."

"Either way, you're not going to find out by sitting in the dark, orally fixating on that pencil."

House stood up.

"You're right, Wilson."

He threw the pencil at Wilson, who caught it dangerously close to his face.

"That could've poked my eye out!" Wilson said.

"You have good reflexes," House said. "Besides, we're in a hospital. The odds of you actually losing the eye would've been very slim."

"Good to know you considered the odds before hurling a sharp object at my face."

"That's what friends are for," House said.

He walked to the door, then paused.

"How do I look?"

"Like your normal, disheveled, apparently babe-magnet self."

"Cool."  
######

Cuddy was sitting behind her desk, typing something into a spreadsheet on the computer.

"Hi," House said nervously.

She looked up, smiled.

"Hi," she said back.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, House. How are you?"

"Fine. . ."

He shuffled his feet.

"Good day today?" he said.

"_House_. . ." she said, in a knowing kind of way.

"What?"

"You don't have to keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Taking my temperature. Making sure I'm okay. It's very sweet of you." She paused for a second. "Uncharacteristically sweet, actually. But I told you, I'm fine."

"Good," he said. But he didn't budge.

She looked at him: "Anything else?"

"You wanna get dinner tonight?"

"House, you're adorable."

And she went back to her spreadsheet.

#######

A week later, Cuddy found herself on a blind date. The guy's name was Dave Berringer and he was a commercial real estate broker. They'd been set up by mutual friends.

He was handsome, in a country club sort of way. Divorced. A teenage daughter.

They were getting all the first date small talk out of the way—he had gone to Harvard; grew up in Minnesota—when Cuddy noticed a tall, lanky man hunched over the bar.

She squinted. It couldn't be. . .

"Excuse me," she said, standing up. Dave stood up, too. "I think I see someone I know."

She marched up to him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

House looked up at her, pretending to be surprised.

"You come here, too?"

"Actually, yes. I do come here. Which is how I know that you don't."

"I _may_ have taken a peek at your date book."

"House! You're spying on me?"

"Not so much spying as hovering protectively. Blind dates are dangerous, ya know."

"We didn't meet on line. We were set up by friends."

House glanced at David. He was squirting lemon into his water.

"He looks a little sketchy."

"He's the opposite of sketchy. _You _on the other hand . . ."

House shrugged.

"What's this all about House? Am I your new favorite distraction now that Stacy is gone?"

"Something like that," House said, sulkily.

"Well, I'd love to entertain you further, but I have to go back to my date."

"Just pretend I'm not here," House said.

"Really? You're staying?"

"I ordered a burger. If you need any help, just give me a sign. The secret code will be 'House, good God! Help!'"

Cuddy rolled her eyes a bit.

"You can observe _silently_," she said. She went back to the table.

The date stood up again.

"Suck up," House muttered under his breath.

He sat mopily at the bar as Cuddy ate her dinner. He was too far away to really overhear their conversation, but a couple of times he heard her laugh. He was deeply annoyed by this.

After a couple of hours, Cuddy and non-sketchy guy got up and left.

She waved at House on the way out.

House began agonizing over what was going to happen next: Would the guy kiss her goodnight? Would she invite him in? Ask him to stay the night? He was torturing himself.

"Another scotch," he said to the bartender.

"Make that two," a voice said.

Cuddy!

She sat down next to him.

"Loverboy didn't drive you home?" he said, not able to wipe the grin off his face.

"We met here," Cuddy said.

"So you _did _think he was sketchy."

"A girl's gotta have an exit strategy," she said.

"How was the date?"

"Disappointing, to be honest. On paper, this guy was perfect. In reality, not so much."

"Sounds like you got your heart broken."

She wrinkled her nose.

"I would hardly say that."

"Sounds like maybe you're in need of some rebound sex," he said.

She smiled at him, rested her chin in her hand—getting it.

"Maybe I do."

THE END


End file.
